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There's a place in the Sun for anyone who has the will to chase one.
Kohaku thought of it as Uranus: the ancient, distant, and cold sky, a vast presence admired from below, but which never descends. Senku, on the other hand, understood it as Saturn: the one who contains time, the one who renounces, the one who maintains order even when that means spinning alone, surrounded, untouched. Not all distance is the same. And not all solitude is born from the same place.
Hyoga had always believed that there must be a place for anyone willing to pursue it, seek it, and make it their own. Not a place you could reach on foot, nor one that could be marked on a map. Something more discreet. More fragile. An exact point where you cease to feel like you're in transit. One that, once you arrive, you don't have to move from, because that's where you'll belong.
He didn't say it aloud, because it wasn't an idea that fit well with the image others had of him. To most, Hyoga wasn't seeking anything: he fulfilled his duties, kept watch, remained. But that wasn't staying. It was resisting. To the minority, he was a potential assassin who had to be handled with care and discretion, but without ever taking their eyes off him.
Hyoga's image was permeated by what others thought of him, and by the condemnation he carried on his shoulders. He couldn't ask for amnesty, nor would he; however, if he could ask for just one thing… he was ashamed even to put it into words, since he wasn't as brave as he appeared.
That night, he had been assigned to watch with Kohaku. It wasn't a surprise; they were usually assigned together because neither was easily distracted, their senses were more than developed. If they had had Tsukasa, the guard would have been even stronger, but he was assigned with Ukyo at the other end.
The fire burned evenly, without sparks, as if even the flames had decided not to attract attention. The dim light of the flames enveloped them, providing what Kohaku needed to keep her sharp eyesight fully alert.
"It's quiet," Kohaku commented, looking around. "Too quiet."
Hyoga nodded.
"It's the kind of calm that doesn't last long."
She barely smiled, as if that warning didn't worry her. Kohaku always seemed comfortable in the open, as if the world could never truly expel her. Hyoga, on the other hand, had spent years feeling on the very edge of things: useful, present, but expendable. He didn't belong in that world, and he deeply regretted that, once normality returned—even if that took years—he would have to pay for his sins behind bars.
The world would go back to the way it was before, but he wouldn't. He would carry a weight difficult for himself to bear, even more so than the one he carried at that moment, which would be a burden for anyone who chose to stand by his side.
Kohaku stood up and climbed one of the trees to see if there were any traces, any signs that might indicate the presence of invaders, or if Stanley had already reached them.
He allowed himself to observe her unhurriedly. He thought that, if there was a place in the sun for someone like him, perhaps it wasn't what others imagined. Perhaps it wasn't about being chosen, but about not having to justify being there. He wondered if this place bore any resemblance to being with that radiant girl who shook her knees before sitting beside him by the fire.
"Does the silence bother you?" she asked suddenly. Hyoga shook his head.
"No. It bothers me when it disappears."
Kohaku looked at him, curious, but didn't ask for an explanation. He appreciated that more than he was willing to admit.
"That's a very typical response from you," Kohaku said before dozing off.
The fire crackled softly. For the first time in a long time, Hyoga didn't feel the urge to move, to get ahead of the next shift, the next order. There, in that shared vigil, with just the right warmth and a presence that demanded nothing, he thought—with an almost superstitious caution—that perhaps he wasn't completely out of place.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he had found something worth pursuing. And only at that moment, when he realized that their lives were in danger, could he understand that he was not seeking complete closeness with the girl just because he found her decent, but that the beating of his heart, as it accelerated when she, unconscious, leaned on his shoulder, told him loudly that he had found something he thought he would never find.
And I think I've found mine. Yes, I do believe I have found mine.
Hyoga thought—without meaning to—that perhaps this was what he had been searching for.
He didn't say it aloud. He didn't even allow himself to consider it a certainty. He thought about it like someone testing a new wound: carefully, cautiously, hoping it wouldn't hurt too much if it turned out to be true. He wanted to know the origin of this feeling, but all of that was difficult. It was the first time he had felt anything for someone.
Inside, every time he was near Kohaku, he felt his heart race and then relax the moment he managed to establish their closeness. She allowed him to be part of a circle that wasn't open to just anyone, and along with that, she offered him mutual respect, something he couldn't simply ignore.
Hyoga wasn't indifferent to such displays of decency.
The waking hours passed without incident. One of those nights, Kohaku stirred the fire a little with a stick, and sparks flew briefly, as if the sky were responding to the gesture.
"Do you always have to do it at night?" she asked.
"Almost always," Hyoga replied. "I get used to the cold better when no one notices."
Kohaku glanced at him sideways, as if that statement concealed something more. She smiled slightly and continued stirring the fire.
"You don't seem like someone who has trouble being alone."
Hyoga smiled. It wasn't a genuine smile. But somehow, the truth had slipped out of her mouth, and no, it wasn't something so easy to admit, at least not just like that.
"Being alone is one thing," he said. "Having nowhere to stay is another."
She didn't reply. She simply nodded, as if she understood without needing to fully share it. She wasn't going to admit it out loud, but she also felt comfortable with Hyoga. She had to keep an eye on him, yes. Hyoga knew that, yes. Was that an impediment to forming any kind of bond? Yes, but Kohaku didn't always follow the rules.
Hyoga told himself it wasn't love. That it was gratitude, or comfort, or mere coincidence. That it had nothing to do with the way his attention returned to her even when he was gazing at the horizon. That it didn't matter that the silence felt different when Kohaku shared it. That the mere thought of the girl falling asleep next to him was simply another way of being vigilant.
He told himself it wasn't being in love, because he wasn't in love. Falling in love meant wanting to stay. And wanting to stay meant accepting that he could lose that place.
Hyoga wasn't sure he wanted to risk so much, considering he could never offer a stable place to a girl like her. Kohaku deserved much more than what an outsider like him could offer her. He rested his arms on his knees and let the warmth of the fire warm his hands. For a moment—just one—he allowed himself to think that perhaps he had found that thing he didn't know how to name. Not a promise, not a future. Something smaller and more dangerous: a feeling of belonging that didn't need explaining.
Yes, he thought. Maybe this was it.
And in that thought, so simple and so false, Hyoga began to lie to himself with an almost loving tenderness.
He only hoped she would never find out, because if she did, there would be no going back.
Say, would you let me cry on your shoulder?
I've heard that you'll try anything twice.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to lean on someone. Not physically—that was easy—but in that more dangerous way, where exhaustion isn't hidden behind posture or duty. Where one accepts that one can't stand alone all the time.
Night wore on, and the cold began to seep in even near the fire. Everyone's worries centered on possible attacks from Stanley's team. And they were the ones in charge of making sure they didn't get any closer than allowed, before alerting the rest.
Kohaku adjusted the cloak over her shoulders, and Hyoga felt, for no apparent reason, a strange impulse: the absurd desire to get just a little closer, to reduce the exact distance he'd learned to respect. Passing her his cloak had only been the beginning. He'd already slept on her shoulder at dinner; she'd let him. But now… now it was something completely different.
“Kohaku,” he said, his voice lower than he expected.
She looked up.
“Yes?”
Hyoga hesitated before continuing. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he knew exactly what he was about to reveal.
“Do you ever… get tired of being strong?” he asked.
Kohaku blinked, surprised by the question. She thought for a second before answering.
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Hyoga nodded, showing that he understood what she meant.
“Me neither,” he said. “Only what I do is less like strength.”
A heavier silence fell, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Hyoga felt something inside him seeking release, as if it had been held back for too long. He didn’t want grand gestures. He wanted something minimal. To allow himself to fall without it making him any less worthy.
“If I ever break,” he continued, finally looking at her, “would you let me stay here? Not so you'll save me. Just… so I won't be alone in that moment."
Kohaku watched him closely. She didn't see weakness. She saw an honest, rare, almost clumsy request.
"Yes," she said. "I can try."
That try was enough to disarm him.
Hyoga looked away, took a deep breath. He allowed himself to feel what he had been avoiding: the desire to be chosen, even in something as small as sharing the burden of a long night.
He didn't want possession. He didn't want promises. He wanted rest. He wanted contact. He wanted, for once, not to have to be the one who always stays on his feet.
And in that silent longing, so contained it seemed like discipline, Hyoga understood that he was no longer pretending.
He was in love.Not with an idea. Not with a possibility.With her. And with what would never be his. Kohaku's heart beat for someone else's heart, someone else who also kept pace with his, but wasn't brave enough to admit it.
And that filled him with rage.
Close your eyes and think of someone you physically admire
and let me kiss you
The night had progressed far enough to make them more honest.
Hyoga saw her before she noticed him. Kohaku walked slowly, as if the camp were too close to thoughts that refused to sleep. It wasn't the first time. He knew that when the noise died down, she sought movement to clear her head.
He hesitated to follow her. He had learned not to encroach on spaces that didn't belong to him. But this time, the impulse was stronger than prudence.
"Can't you sleep?" he asked as he approached, keeping a safe distance.
Kohaku stopped and smiled slightly, a tired but sincere smile.
"Sometimes I need to tire my body so my mind will quiet down."
They sat down near what remained of the fire. There was no urgency. No extreme exhaustion. Just that strange calm that comes when you stop watching yourself. Kohaku stretched her hands toward the warmth and sighed.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I feel like there are things expected of me without anyone saying them.”
Hyoga looked at her. He felt the familiar sting of that phrase.
“As if you were supposed to know them beforehand.”
She nodded.
“Yes. As if it were too late to ask.”
Hyoga understood. Not because he shared the exact experience, but because he recognized that feeling of standing before something that still had no name. He thought about all the times he had chosen the hardest path because he believed it was the only possible one. How duty, when accepted too soon, ends up resembling destiny.
He looked at her, and with that came the guilt.
Not for desiring her—he had already accepted that—but for the clarity with which he knew that he wasn't the one she was waiting for. And yet, the desire was there, intact, luminous. It hurt to admit it, but it also gave him a quiet joy: feeling something that didn't demand to be reciprocated.
In that silence, Hyoga decided to act on his own. He wanted to give free rein to a desire he had kept hidden, a desire he thought he could quell if only he were allowed that sweet touch.
Even if it was an absurd lie, he wanted to try, but he needed her consent.
"Kohaku," he said without touching or looking at her, "do you trust me?"
She didn't answer immediately. She observed him as if weighing the question, not out of distrust, but out of a sense of responsibility. Then, she simply replied with her characteristic composure:
"Yes."
That answer tightened her chest. Not as a triumph, but as a warning.
"Then," he continued, "close your eyes for a moment. Not to forget anything. To think about what you desire. Not about what's right. About what comes naturally to you."
Kohaku looked at him intently. She searched for cracks, ulterior motives. She found no pressure. She saw no haste. She saw care. She closed her eyes.
Hyoga approached slowly, his pulse steady and his heart racing. Each step carried an uncomfortable certainty: this didn't belong to him, and yet, it was real. He knew that silence would follow, the right distance, acceptance, and the imminent rejection. But he also knew that to flee now would be to lie to himself.
The opportunity was there, and it would only appear once in a lifetime. He had already wasted so much time since those times they stood guard, waiting for Stanley to attack. But once the Science Kingdom had triumphed, those moments didn't return so often, for the greatest threat had passed.
And he had died to prevent her death.
"Let me kiss you," he said softly, cupping her cheeks. "Not to stay. Not to change anything. Just to meet here… now."
Kohaku's eyes snapped open. Hyoga didn't move. After a few seconds, she closed her eyes again and nodded slowly. He needed no more. He lowered his mask to carry out his plan.
The kiss was serene. There was no anxiety, no conquest. It was a conscious point of contact, a brief agreement. Kohaku responded, not with the promise of anything more, but with complete presence. Their lips met in an almost reverent softness, as if they both understood that this moment didn't demand a future.
Hyoga closed his eyes.
He didn't imagine a different tomorrow. He didn't pretend to be someone else. He didn't allow himself to dream beyond that second. He stayed there, in the guilty joy of feeling and the strange peace of not demanding anything.
When they parted, neither spoke.
Kohaku took a deep breath, with the quiet certainty of someone who has understood something without needing to name it. Hyoga felt the same. He knew that this wouldn't change his place in the world. But neither would it erase it.
He hadn't gained anything. But, for once, his desire hadn't been a burden. For a moment, just one, they had been in harmony.
And that was enough. Their tormented, dark hearts needed nothing more. They had already tasted Venus.
But then you open your eyes and you see someone you physically despise
Silence returned first.
Kohaku was the one who opened her eyes. Not abruptly, not uncomfortably. She simply did, like someone who has just finished hearing something and needs to confirm where they stand.
Hyoga was still close, respecting the distance he had always known how to maintain. He didn't try to prolong the moment. He didn't look for another gesture. He waited.
Kohaku looked at him then clearly. She saw nothing wrong with him. She didn't see anything she wanted to avoid. She saw, with a calm and definitive certainty, that he wasn't the one she was looking for.
The kiss had been real. The desire, too. But there was something that hadn't appeared, something she recognized the instant she silently named it: the direction. Her body had responded, yes, but her heart was already inclined in another direction.
Hyoga didn't lean forward waiting for an answer. That was the first thing he had learned: not to move the body forward when the heart already knows the answer.
The kiss happened because she didn't pull away. That's all.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
It was brief, awkward, almost restrained, as if they both understood—though for different reasons—that it shouldn't last. Kohaku smelled of dust and wind, of something that never stays still. Hyoga closed his eyes not to imagine a future, but to hold onto the present, aware that it would be all he had.
He didn't hold her. He didn't pull her any closer. He didn't try to convince her of anything, because he knew that for her, that gesture wouldn't signify a break, a choice, or a beginning. It was merely a suspended instant, one that she would leave behind with the same force with which she always kept moving forward.
And that was okay.
When they separated, Hyoga didn't lower his gaze. He observed her with a calmness that wasn't coldness, but acceptance. Like someone looking at a planet from the right distance: too far to touch, too close to stop feeling its gravity.
“Hyoga…” she began, and stopped.
She didn't know how to say it without hurting him, and that pause was enough for him to understand everything.
"It's okay," he said, before she could continue. "You don't have to explain."
Kohaku frowned, a slight but honest guilt creeping in.
"It's not that it wasn't important," she said. "It's just not..."
"It's not me," Hyoga finished.
She nodded slowly, a deep melancholy welling up inside her. Hyoga felt guilty; he hadn't wanted her to react this way, but he couldn't back out now that his greatest wish had been granted.
"I wish it were you," she admitted.
"You don't have to say anything," he interrupted before she could explain. "In fact, you didn't even have to know how I felt in the first place."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd rather die than let you know. But Chelsea found out, and everything started to shake," she sighed, unsure if from exhaustion or a broken heart. "Now, I just needed to kiss you once."
"Hyoga..."
"Are you going to walk away from me?"
"No," she replied quickly. "I won't."
"If you want to, you have every right. I'm just going to ask you to tell me."
"I won't."
"If you ever decide to. Don't get me wrong. I'm going to keep taking care of myself, but I need you to know that I only want your happiness."
"I'm not going to leave you. But I can't promise that I'll reciprocate."
"I can promise that I'll protect you even if it costs me my life. And you know that very well. Until I lose my freedom. I have no obligation to anyone but myself," he looked at her resolutely, "and my priority now is seeing you happy."
He wasn't saying it to protect himself. He was saying it because he didn't need anything else. He had no other reason to fight. Sooner or later, he was going to lose his freedom as a consequence of his own actions. What did it matter if his only motivation was to see that girl, whom he found crying because her feelings weren't being reciprocated, happy? That had been enough.
A second of real closeness, without lies, without false promises. He hadn't expected to be reciprocated; he had only wanted to know what it felt like to be there, even if just once.
Kohaku nodded, and in that brief gesture, Hyoga understood that she would go her own way.
And he, like a cold, distant planet, would remain in his orbit: alone, beautiful in the distance, revolving around something that would never belong to him.
Hyoga took a small step back, not as a retreat, but as an adjustment. He settled into his place with a calmness that cost him more than he let on.
He had known from the beginning that this moment didn't entirely belong to him. And yet, it hurt. Because opening your eyes doesn't erase what you felt. It only puts it in its proper place.
But my heart is open...
My heart is open to you
He kept the promise until the end. Hyoga didn't ask her to stay. He never did. When he spoke, his voice was low, firm, almost serene, as if it cost him nothing… even though it cost him everything.
"I'm going to stay," he said. "Not because I expected anything different. Not because I think it will change anything." He paused briefly, just long enough to make sure he wasn't lying to himself. "As a friend. As support. As a presence. As whatever you need, for as long as you need it."
Kohaku didn't respond immediately. She lowered her gaze. Her hands tensed slightly, a small gesture that betrayed how difficult it was to receive something like this without being able to reciprocate.
"Hyoga…" she began, then stopped. "I…"
He shook his head gently.
"You don't have to explain."
She took a deep breath before speaking.
"Thank you," she said finally. "Truly." “I don’t know how to say how much you mean to me,” she said, looking up, direct and honest, as always. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t reciprocate.”
Hyoga nodded. There was no surprise in her gesture.
“You don’t have to reciprocate,” he replied. “My heart demands nothing.”
Silence settled between them, comfortable and sad at the same time. Then, almost as a final act of truth, Hyoga added, without drama:
“But perhaps it’s fair to say that my heart is open to you; you can use it as you wish. I will always be grateful for having fallen in love with a girl like you, even if it’s not reciprocated.”
Not as a burden. Not as a waiting game. But as a place she could enter… or not. Without owing her anything.
Time passed.
Hyoga trained. He walked. He thought.
He thought about honor, about decisions made not for reward but for consistency. He thought of Senku, of his fierce intelligence, of his way of understanding the world with words, ideas, and equations. Sometimes he regretted not having been born with that kind of mind.
But he never regretted her path.
His body, forged with discipline, had allowed him to be there. By her side. To protect her. To accompany her. To exist in the same space as her, though not in the same place in her heart.
For a long time, he believed it must be Saturn or Uranus. The distant one. The one that revolves far away. The one that observes without touching. Until he understood that it was neither.
It was something else. A celestial body without a name. One that orbits the solar system without truly belonging to it. Without a temple, without mythology, without the promise of being remembered.
And yet… his only wish was simple: to be able to be near Venus. Even if only as a tiny satellite. Even if unseen.
Because that, only that, gave meaning to his solitude. And purpose to his admiration.
That night, he walked with Tsukasa among the trees. The forest was calm, almost gentle. The leaves crunched under their steps, marking a slow, unhurried rhythm.
"You've been quiet," Tsukasa commented, without looking at him.
"I'm fine," Hyoga replied, and this time it wasn't a lie. "We already talked about this a while ago."
"Aren't you going to tell me?"
"It's an old story." And I feel it's not the right time yet.
Gen caught up with them without realizing it. He arrived talking, as always, without much thought given to the weight of his words.
"Hey, by the way…" he said, distractedly.
Hyoga doesn't remember exactly what he said next. He only remembers the tone. The moment. The way something settled inside his chest, not breaking… but settling.
He stopped. Tsukasa glanced at him.
"Hyoga?"
He shook his head.
"It's nothing."
And it was true. He didn't ask when. He didn't ask why. The outside world didn't break. It just became final. In any case, he knows very well that that night he showed a side of himself that Tsukasa and Gen could never forget.
Later, when he saw Kohaku smile—a different smile, light, genuine—something in his chest ached… and was relieved at the same time.
He silently wished that smile had been for him. But even so, he thought it had been worth it. Because for Hyoga, loving had never been about possessing: it had been about remaining, standing firm, without resentment and with an open heart.
And even if Venus never came near, its orbit had had meaning. Because even a nameless body can find purpose in loving with dignity the one who found happiness, even if it wasn't by his side.
Hyoga kept walking, knowing that his destiny awaited him with a partial view of Venus, a view interrupted by the perpetual darkness or the bars of a window.
However, he wasn't going to a different place, but rather he walked now with a new certainty. He had loved without being chosen, and yet, he hadn't been emptied.
Some celestial bodies have no name or constellation. They exist only to orbit, to hold another's light without claiming it. And in that distance—painful but honest—Hyoga found something akin to peace.
Because even when Venus shines far away, continuing to revolve is also a way of living.
—the end—